


Rather a Cockerel Than a Capon

by notkingyet



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: M/M, Post S2, Yuletide Treat, pre S3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 04:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8952961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notkingyet/pseuds/notkingyet
Summary: Fred's flat is ransacked. If the culprit intended to silence him, they've made a fatal misstep. He'll be damned before he lets anyone tell him what he can and cannot print.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [woodironbone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodironbone/gifts).



> Thanks to [thriftstorevictoriana](http://thriftstorevictoriana.tumblr.com/) for costuming assistance and [eternalparadiseseeker](http://eternalparadiseseeker.tumblr.com) for plot help and cheerleading.

_London, 1892_

The door to Fred’s flat swung open freely. Which was odd, since Fred had locked and bolted it when he left the lodging-house over nineteen hours ago.

Fred paused, his gloved hand suspended in air where the knob had been before a tap of his fingertips had pushed the door wide. It’d been half-past eleven when he’d approved the final proof of the morning edition and departed the _Star_ offices for the night. Which meant it was nigh on midnight now. Far too late for the housekeeper to be puttering around.

A feverish heat bubbled up in the ragged remains of Fred’s right ear, an echo of the searing pain of a Pinkerton’s knife. He recalled the glint of a blade in the dark, hands holding him down, an American drawl. _“If you’ve lied to me, I’ll cut off your face.”_

Fred swallowed down the pounding of his heart and set to investigating.

First, he knelt to squint at the lock. Or rather, what was left of the lock. Even by the light of the hall’s guttering gas lamp he could see the deadbolt had been kicked open—only jagged splinters remained. The intruder had evidently not bothered his landlady for a spare key.

His left ear picked up no sound from within the flat. No scuttering, nor scuffling, nor footsteps nor breath. Either the intruder had already left, or they were adept at concealing their presence.

Fred adjusted his grip on his walking stick and crept in.

The two rooms Fred kept in his lodging-house were modest, as befit a bachelor of his class; a combined kitchen and sitting room, and a bedroom. Only the bedroom had a window. The gas lamp in the hall illuminated his sitting-room.

If Fred were reporting on the incident, he’d refer to it as ransacked. Certainly the Viking invaders of old could’ve done no better. His books—largely reference materials, with a few collected penny-dreadfuls—had been pulled from their shelves and torn in half, and half again, and littered the floor like dead leaves. His armchair was overturned, its sliced-open cushions spilling their stuffing onto the braided rug. The rug itself had a spreading puddle—piss, judging by the smell. Fred wrinkled his nose and stepped carefully around it to reach the lamp.

More light did not help the situation. Across the room in the kitchen area he could see broken china strewn across the floorboards—all that remained of his cups and plates. His cutlery was bent in half and tossed down with the rest of the shattered mess, except for the knives, which were stabbed into the surface of the tiny, two-seating table, along with a solitary fork. The contents of the dust-bin had been tossed into the air and covered everything in black grime.

His desk, beside the kitchen stove, fared no better. Its beautiful finish was pockmarked with kicks. Its drawers were all pulled out and their contents dumped. His typewriter was smashed. Some of its keys had tumbled to the floor and lay amongst the wreckage of his desk chair, now no better than kindling.

Fred, who’d stood in shock for a full five minutes without hearing or seeing any sign of occupancy, concluded the intruder had left. He squared his shoulders and approached his desk.

The lock had been smashed, which he’d expected, but his gut clenched at the sight regardless. He eased open the lid. Most of his notes he kept at the office. The desk’s contents were personal papers—rival publications, Ripper clippings, a manuscript Fred had been fiddling with for years—nothing incriminating, he’d learned that lesson back when blackmail forced him to give up Harry. Now, the novel and everything else was a shredded, sodden mess reeking of urine.

It felt rather as if the intruder had reached a clawed hand into Fred’s ribcage and scooped him out. The hollow part inside of him howled. He clenched his jaw and blinked back the burn in his eyes. So what if his manuscript—the only copy, and Christ, if he dwelt on that fact for long he would start howling aloud—and his furniture and his books and his plates and all the rest were destroyed. They were only things. Things could be replaced. It might take him ten years and his life’s savings to do it but by God, he would do it. They’d need more than a burglary to keep Fred Best down.

However, while ruined, none of the possessions seemed to be missing.

This was not a burglary. This was a message.

The realization sent a surge of cold fear through Fred’s veins. He squared his shoulders against it and moved on.

The fogged-over glow of the street lamp trickled through the window to illuminate his bedroom. Fred stumbled to a halt on the threshold.

His closet doors were torn from their hinges. The wash-stand was overturned, its shattered porcelain pitcher and basin spilled across a pile on the ground. The chest drawers were pulled out and dumped on the floor. And their former contents…

Fred staggered forward to pick up his gold cravat. Or what remained of it. It’d been cut to ribbons, the scraps too small even for patches. Fred’s horror only increased as he realized every other piece in his wardrobe had suffered the same treatment. The caped suit of grey tweed he’d hunted the Ripper in; the satin blood-orange waistcoat he’d worn when the Pinkertons visited the _Star_ office; the checked trousers in which he’d confronted Stanley Bone on his corruption; the tartan velveteen waistcoat he’d rescued from a Petticoat Lane scrap heap—and a good thing, too, for while he’d intended to use its fabric for trim, he found to his astonishment it fit him as if it’d been tailored to his frame. Bent tie-pins pricked his fingers as he dug through the pile, and the snapped-off end of his straight razor (its imitation-ivory handle stamped to slivers) nicked his right thumb. His heart wrenched as he found the tattered remnants of his maroon checked wool jacket. He’d picked up for a song on account of its hopelessly moth-eaten back collar, which he’d replaced with black-and-white houndstooth from a waistcoat made for a man three times his breadth. It was a daring combination, but it worked, and Fred had taken more than a little pride in his Frankenstein creation. Now it and everything else was fit only to be burnt.

There were those who snidely referred to Fred as “the Oscar Wilde of the East End.” He took it as a compliment and strove to out-do the playwright—in fashion, in literature, in supposed sin. Mr Wilde’s bon-mots were nothing to Fred’s blood-soaked headlines, his Savile Row suits nothing to the wardrobe Fred had dug up from pawn shops and fire sales and pieced together with his own two hands in the wee hours. As for sin… well, Fred supposed they were equal in that. But his words and his wardrobe far outshone Mr Wilde. Until now.

Now, everything but the clothes on his back lay in tatters around him, and the words wouldn’t come.

Then he caught sight of a corner of white cotton sticking out from under his bed. His hand trembled as he reached for it. The rag he retrieved, reduced to bare threads, couldn’t be recognized by any eyes but his own. He knew it instantly as the handkerchief Harry had given him, printed with the likeness of Kate Webster, the murderess at the center of the Barnes Mystery—a souvenir for tourists come down from the countryside for the trial. It’d made Fred and Harry laugh. After the burning of the photographs, it was all Fred had left of him.

What fear Fred felt at his discovery of the invasion flew away, replaced by a flood of outrage. He crushed the cotton threads in his fist and stood to shove them into his trouser pocket. His mind worked furiously to think of who had done this.

No doubt the local slumlords weren’t too pleased with his reporting on their unreasonable rent hikes—perhaps this was their revenge. Or perhaps the factory owners hoped to intimidate Fred out of printing his expose on their strikebreaking. If so, they were too late—the article’s type was already set in the morning edition. Remnants of the Strutton Ground Boys and Blind Beggar Gang might take umbrage with what Fred had penned about them—but surely they had a bigger grudge against the police who’d broken them up. Perhaps it was his own prejudices talking, but Fred thought it possible H Division was fed up with his criticism of their methods and had decided to teach him a lesson once and for all—in which case, going to the police would be worse than pointless. The list of potential suspects ran on and on.

The grandfather clock on the ground floor struck twelve, jarring Fred from his deductions.

He couldn’t stay here. Even if the place weren’t a disaster. Who knew when the intruders might return?

Fred turned on his heel and left the lodging-house.


	2. Chapter 2

The printers in the _Star_ offices didn’t give Fred so much as a second glance when he returned scarcely an hour after he’d departed for the night. Fred himself was grateful for their indifference as he hurried back into his office and bolted the door behind himself.

His office appeared untouched in the interim. Fred let out a sigh of relief.

He kept a camp bed tucked away in a cupboard behind the desk. He’d never used it. If he was in his office, he was working. Even if his flat had just been destroyed and he had no idea by whom or why. Fred drowned out his concerns by typing up his notes on Lord Withington’s pending divorce. He hardly noticed the sun rising through the thick layers of omnipresent fog outside his office window. However, he’d have to be robbed of both ears before he failed to notice the arrival of a baby-faced copper from H-Division at his office door.

“Inspector Reid bids you come with me, sir,” the lad squeaked.

Reid certainly liked them young, Fred mused as he followed the officer into a hansom cab to his own address.

In the street outside his lodgings, he discovered a ragged cluster of on-lookers, including three more youthful lieutenants—and Sergeant Drake.

“Best,” said Drake, his basset-hound features arranged in a fearsome scowl as he crossed his arms over his meaty chest.

“Sergeant.” Fred touched the brim of his trilby.

“Glad to find you alive. And surprised.”

No more surprised than Fred felt to hear Drake was _glad_ about his continued survival. “Have you discovered who ransacked my flat?”

Drake blinked, apparently astonished. “You know, then?”

“Yes. I arrived home at eleven-thirty, discovered my lodgings to be uninhabitable, and left.” Fred kept his eyes locked on Drake’s and tried not to think about Drake and Reid and a hundred other coppers slithering over his home in his absence.

“Where did you go?” asked Drake.

“To my office. Figured I wasn’t going to sleep anyway, so I might as well get some work done.”

“On any particular story?”

Fred forced a smirk. “A reporter does not reveal his sources, sir. Nor does he give away his headline before the edition is out.”

Drake did not look impressed. “Perhaps I should call Inspector Reid to the scene. Or bring you to him.”

Fred allowed a fraction of his frustration to leak into his tone. “Oh, I’m sure the _great_ Inspector Reid has _far_ more important things to investigate.”

“He does,” said Drake. “But if you’re going to be difficult then I’ve got no choice.”

Fred spread his arms wide, resisting the urge to twirl his walking-stick. “I’m happy to answer any questions you have here.”

Drake’s scowl deepened. “Why didn’t you alert the police?”

Fred gave him a blank look. When Drake refused to pick up on it, he sighed. “It was late. There was nothing to be done that night that couldn’t be accomplished in the daylight hours. I didn’t wish to disturb my landlady.”

“Right. Because it was such a pleasant surprise for her to discover the mess this morning.”

Fred felt a twinge of guilt. “I’m sorry for that. But I was tired, and—” He stopped himself before he could admit to being afraid. Drake seemed to read it in his expression regardless. “—I wasn’t thinking as clearly as I ought’ve been.”

Drake scoffed, as if to say he was sure of that. “D’you have any idea who might’ve done this?”

“As you are no doubt well aware, Sergeant, the list of people who’d rather I never pen another word as long as I live—it is a long one.”

“In that case, you’d best come inside and start dictating it now.”

Fred grit his teeth and followed Drake up to the flat.

It looked no better by day. Quite apart from the destruction, the sight of a half-dozen bluebottles in his rooms was enough to give Fred a fit. He’d seen the very same sight in his nightmares, felt cold iron snap onto his wrists, pictured the hideous triumph on Reid’s face as he held up a photograph of illegal affections—

But Reid wasn’t here, and Fred had burnt up the photograph long ago. 

Fred drew in a steadying breath. Beside him, Drake jerked his head at a particular smooth-cheeked bluebottle, who came running over.

“Sergeant Brown,” said Drake. “Take Mr Best’s statement.”

Sergeant Brown obediently whipped out a memorandum-book and gave Fred a wide-eyed, expectant stare.

Fred sighed and began naming names.

It took nigh on an hour to get through the list. And all the while, in his peripheral vision, policemen crawled over his flat, poking through the wreckage of his life, carrying away scraps of it as evidence. Fred swore he could hear them laughing at him under their breath. The bobbies must’ve loved to see Fred Best taken down a peg. See the swell of Whitechapel reduced to…

“Anyone else, sir?” squeaked Sergeant Brown.

Fred blinked at him, then shook his head. Brown nodded sharply and returned to Drake for further instruction.

Drake, who’d been overseeing the investigation of Fred’s bedroom—and Christ, how Fred’s skin crawled at the thought—returned to Fred’s side shortly. He wore an expression Fred misliked. A certain twist of his haggard, meaty countenance. It looked very much like a half-dead bulldog’s attempt at pity.

“There’s an open camp bed at Leman Street,” said Drake, “if you need a place to stay tonight.”

Fred, all his mental energy occupied with holding back an apoplectic fit, could only gawk at him.

Drake continued. “It’d be the safest—”

“No, thank you.”

Drake jerked back.

Fred almost did the same. Even he hadn’t realized his tone could sound quite so sharp as that. He cleared his throat and balled his hands into fists to stop his fingers trembling. “My office is perfectly adequate, I assure you.” He forced another smirk. “Of course, I’m sure you already knew as much. You certainly barge into it often enough.”

The pitying expression vanished from Drake’s face, replaced with his customary scowl. Fred tried to feel victorious. But there was only a hollow ache in his chest. With a shameful twist, he recalled another moment when he and Drake had sparred—Drake shoving him against an alley wall, demanding answers—Fred pleading with him for a boy’s life—and Drake running off without hesitation…

All for naught. Fred hardened his heart to return Drake’s scowl with his own fearsomely clenched jaw.

“Have it your way, Best,” Drake growled. Then he backed off. “You’re free to go. We know where to find you.”

Fred touched the brim of his trilby and scarpered.

Back at the _Star_ offices, Fred buried himself in work. He spent the better part of an hour finding just the right set of words to imply, but not state outright, the probable connection of a toff’s divorce to the high turnover amongst his maidstaff. _The Star_ ’s new editor, Ernest Parke, had learned his libel lesson well in the Cleveland Street trials. He was loathe to have his reporters make the same mistake twice. Fred’s blood had roiled when the man first walked into the office, recalling Parke’s words on _corruption_ and _filth_ and _depravity_ for any who’d so much as look at a telegraph boy—but if Parke knew anything of Fred’s habits outside the office, he said nothing of it.

Still, in between musing on the upstairs-downstairs scandal of Lord Withington, Fred found his mind wandering down dangerous paths. He recalled what became of his former friends amongst the Post Office staff. He wondered if he’d made a similar enemy. Still, the scum who’d done in Vincent hadn’t intended to send a warning with Ollie—they’d just gone straight in for the snuff. The fact that Fred had received any forewarning whatsoever gave him a massive advantage. Unless, of course, whoever had ransacked his apartment had thought to find him at home. But if that were true, then they clearly knew nothing of his habits—in which case, he again held the upper hand.

His office door flew wide. Fred bolted upright, papers scattering to the floor.

In the doorway, Inspector Reid cocked an aloof eyebrow. “Do we disturb you, Best?”

“No more than usual,” Fred replied, working double to keep his tone light as he bent to regather his papers and his dignity. “Any clues in my case? Any leads?”

Reid shook his head and lumbered towards the desk, moving more like an ambulatory tree than a man. Nobody had any right to be that damned tall. “We were hoping you could enlighten us on that point.”

Drake followed Reid into the room, his chin up in the back-alley sneer he adopted at Reid’s behest.

Fred flicked his gaze between them before settling on Reid. “I already spoke to Sergeant Brown.”

“Indeed,” said Reid. “However, I thought you might be willing to speak more freely in a private setting.”

With a nod from Reid, Drake shut the office door behind himself. Fred, who had a sneaking suspicion he knew exactly what Reid was asking of him, let his indignant feelings show in his face.

Reid disregarded it. “Besides yourself, does anyone else occupy your rooms?”

Cold dread rose in Fred’s veins. He put on his best blank look. “No.”

“Is there anyone else with access to your rooms? A key, perhaps?”

“My landlady, Mrs Hasham, only gives out the one to each resident.”

“Yes, but copies might be made, if you wished to give another person—”

“I don’t,” Fred snapped.

“—the means to enter your rooms quietly,” Reid concluded as if Fred had never interrupted. “Without causing a disturbance. Or attracting attention.”

Fred stared at him, his heart pounding. “I don’t know what you’re implying—”

Drake chuckled, though it sounded forced.

Fred continued. “—but I am a bachelor, sir—”

“A confirmed one,” Reid cut in.

“—and I live quite alone!” Fred snapped his jaw shut, wary of how loud his voice had become.

Reid let him stew in it for a full five seconds before he sighed and turned to Drake. “Sergeant, have a chat with the office staff and confirm Mr Best’s whereabouts last night.”

Fred gawked at Drake’s retreat, then turned the same disbelief on Reid. “Where else would I have been?”

Reid stared at him.

Cold fear turned to hot rage in Fred’s blood. “What, you think I ransacked my own flat!?”

“I don’t know,” said Reid, his tone infuriatingly calm. “ _Quid pro quo_ , Mr Best. I only have what you give me.”

“I gave you a list of names a half-mile long! Leman Street’s efficiency has increased a hundredfold if you’ve interviewed them all by now!”

Reid opened his mouth for a counterpoint. Behind him, the door burst open again. Fred flinched, but recovered as he recognized the copper on the threshold as one of the many fresh-faced specimens who’d been pawing through his flat.

“Yes, Carpers?” Reid said coolly as the boy panted his lungs out in the doorway. “What is it?”

Carpers gasped not unlike a fish. “The landlady, sir—Mrs Hasham—she was out for a church meeting from seven o’clock to nine. Mr Jones—downstairs—spent the night with an aunt in Highgate, and Mr Smith in the garret was at a pub with his workmates until well past midnight. All other rooms in the house are unoccupied.”

Reid narrowed his eyes. “And Mrs Hasham’s hearing?”

“Quite good, sir. She overheard Spencer muttering about the damage to the flat—which set her off something awful—but she didn’t hear a thing in all the hours she was at home.”

“Which means the door was kicked in and the rooms destroyed whilst she was out.” Reid turned back to Fred. “That good enough for you, Best?”

“It’s a start,” Fred snapped.

Drake appeared in the doorway behind Carpers. “Inspector.”

“Yes?” said Reid.

Drake gave a sideways glance at Fred, then turned his whole attention upon Reid. “Everyone from the editor-in-chief to the office boys insists Mr Best was in his office from five o’clock yesterday morning to eleven o’clock last night—barring a few investigative interviews throughout the day, to which various photographers and assistants accompanied him. The printers confirm he returned to the office shortly after midnight and didn’t go anywhere else until you sent Sergeant Hopkins to pick him up.”

“He was never observed leaving the office alone?” asked Reid.

Drake shook his head.

“Satisfied?” Fred snarled.

To Fred’s astonishment, Reid looked a fraction humbled. “Your alibi stands, Mr Best. I’m glad to have eliminated that avenue of investigation.” Before Fred could scoff, Reid added, “Is there anyone at _The Star_ who seeks to supplant you?”

Fred stared at him in blank disbelief.

Reid waited until it became plain Fred had no intention of dignifying his inquiry with a response, then departed with a promise to keep Fred updated on the case. Fred doubted it, though for once he didn’t say as much aloud.

The office door shut on the bluebottles. Fred dropped his forehead into his hands.

As degrading as it was to be suspected of pissing on one’s own possessions, his mind was preoccupied with Reid’s comments regarding who else might have access to his flat. He had lied to the police, of course. There was one other person. A person above suspicion. A person, nevertheless, possibly in peril should whoever destroyed Fred’s home know of their connection.

It was out of concern for this person that Fred left the _Star_ offices at the unusually early hour of ten o’clock that night.


	3. Chapter 3

It was a considerable walk from Fleet Street to Crouch End. Fred didn’t mind. Charles Dickens, in his early days as a reporter for the _True Sun_ , had spent every spare hour wandering over London in “amateur vagrancy” to gather material for _Sketches by Boz_. The moment Fred heard of this habit, he strove to imitate it. After nigh-on twenty years of it his legs were well accustomed to the exercise. Besides, cab fare on a reporter’s salary was ludicrous for anything less than a house fire.

Still, if any cabs had been trotting through at this hour, Fred would’ve seriously considered it. Neighborhoods the _Pall Mall Gazette_ considered little better than Sodom and Gomorrah by day looked outright Hellish by night. Fred kept his chin up and shoulders back, studiously avoiding eye contact with every shadowy figure he passed. It took everything he had not to flinch as he passed by alleyways—alleyways with a striking resemblance to the one where Vincent…

Fred paused just past one of these, lit a cigarette for comfort, and walked on.

The cigarette was a stub by the time he arrived at the address. He flicked the it aside as he stared up at the edifice. It was a modest boarding house, in a “better” neighborhood than Fred’s own. No broken windows. Fred hoped it would stay that way as he picked up a pebble from the gutter and chucked it at a particular window.

Four pebbles later, the window had a face in it. Fred tipped his trilby at the face. The window opened. A young man stuck his head out, squinting through the fog, his blond hair mussed with sleep.

“Fred?” the man said, rubbing one eye with the heel of his hand. “What the Devil…?”

“Halloa, Tom,” Fred returned with a forced grin. “Let us in, won’t you?”

Tom stared down at him in disbelief.

Fred couldn’t blame him. They didn’t usually conduct themselves like this.

They’d first met a year or so ago at a similar hour in Hyde Park. It was supposed to be a night of frantic, anonymous passion, as exciting as it was fleeting. And it was. Then they stumbled upon each other the next night—and the next.

The first night, they exchanged Christian names. The second, they discovered their shared affinity for spine-tingling tales of crime, and Tom discovered the particular spot on the inside of Fred’s wrist that made his eyes flutter and his breath hitch. The third night, Fred admitted he was a reporter, and Tom admitted he was a junior clerk at a shipping firm, and his father before him was a clerk at a bank, and the work itself bored Tom to distraction, but he kept penny dreadfuls stashed in his desk drawer to read at lunch.

On the fourth night, after Fred had spent the third day throughly investigating this dashing young man and determined he was not a professional blackmailer, Fred invited him back to his lodgings. And after that, as Tom sprawled naked across Fred’s mattress and shared his cigarette, Tom had asked if they might not become something more than casual acquaintances.

And Fred had hesitated.

He’d not had a steady partner since Harry. There was too much at stake. His reputation, his career, his very liberty—and worst of all, his heart. He’d drunk himself half to death the night he was forced to give Harry up. If he loved and lost again, he’d have to throw himself in the Thames.

And yet, here was Tom, with downy blond hair on his splayed thighs and soft belly, and his pink lips wrapped around Fred’s cigarette, and his sparkling blue eyes staring into Fred’s with youthful daring and desire.

Fred stared back at him, more cautiously, then slowly reached up to remove his glasses—and his porcelain ear.

Tom’s eyes widened.

Fred had insisted upon keeping his prosthetic on for all their encounters. But if they were going to do this, then damn it, they would do it properly. Fred folded the glasses and set them aside on the night-stand. He turned his face three-quarters towards Tom, showing off the gaping hole in the right side of his head.

Tom cocked his head to one side. He didn’t look disgusted or horrified. Merely contemplative. Then, just as Fred’s nerves were strained to the breaking point, and he was a half-second away from demanding Tom say something, anything, for God’s sake—Tom sat up and kissed him. As he did so, he put his palm to Fred’s cheek, fearless, disregarding the wound entirely.

Fred’s resolve crumbled. They’d been together ever since.

However, as passionate as they were, they were no less cautious. They met in innocuous situations, and stayed at least an arm’s length from each other in public. They certainly didn’t go throwing rocks at each other’s windows in the middle of the night.

So at present, with Tom aghast at Fred’s audacity, Fred had a sinking feeling he might be refused. But then—

“All right,” said Tom. His head disappeared from the window, which shut shortly after.

Fred tapped his walking-stick and braced both hands against its head, clenching and unclenching them. To keep his head from swiveling about at every sound and shadow, he turned his mind to estimating the coming wait. A minute to put on a house-coat, another minute to descend the stair, a half-minute or so to fumble with the lock…

The front door opened. Tom appeared in the crack. Fred leapt into motion and trotted up the steps to slip inside. Tom shut the door after him. Fred found himself in a dark foyer. The gas lamps were all turned down. His eyes adjusted just in time to see Tom clutching his house-coat around his shoulders.

“What’s going on?” Tom demanded in a harsh whisper. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Fred, who hadn’t even dared to put his fears into words in his own thoughts, was so relieved to find Tom alive and well he had half a mind to kiss him. And why not? The hour was late, the foyer was dark, they were alone…

Except for the quiet _a-hem_ in the dim corner, just out of Fred’s sight.

Fred flung one arm in front of Tom to shove him out of harm’s way and thrust his walking-stick out in front to defend them both.

The gas lamps turned up, revealing a little grey-haired woman in a nightcap and slippers. Her pursed-lipped scowl emphasized her wrinkles. “What’s all this, then, Mr Gilder?”

“Just my cousin come up from Liverpool,” Tom said over Fred’s shoulder. “Fred, this is my landlady, Mrs Cresswell. Mrs Cresswell, my cousin, Mr Wurst.”

Fred quickly removed his hat and gave her a deferential nod. In his best Scouse accent, he said, “Forgive the intrusion, ma’am. My train was delayed, and I’m unfamiliar with the neighborhood. I’m afraid I quite lost my way.”

Mrs Cresswell squinted suspiciously at him. Then she turned back to Tom. “There’s a rent increase for double-occupancy.”

“It’s just for the night,” Tom promised her.

She continued her suspicious glare as Tom took Fred by the elbow and half-dragged him upstairs.

The gas lights in the upper halls were turned down low, casting flickering shadows on the floral wallpaper. Fred trusted Tom to know his way around. They walked down many a hallway and up another stair, their footsteps muffled by the carpet—far less threadbare than that in Fred’s lodgings. Fred held his tongue until they were in Tom’s room with the door safely locked behind them.

“Your cousin, Mr Wurst?” he asked in an undertone, arching an eyebrow.

“I didn’t hear you giving her a better explanation,” Tom replied, busying himself with shutting and locking the window.

“No, no, it’s a very good one,” Fred assured him. He glanced over the room. He’d been to it once before, and it seemed the same now as it had then—a respectable bachelor’s residence, with a steam radiator for heat, a spirit stove to cook on, a cricket bat propped up next to the wardrobe, a wash-stand, a newspaper left on the arm of a stuffed chair by the empty hearth, and a nightstand piled with sordid novels beside the bed. “Do you have whisky?”

Tom stared at him. “I have a man in my bedroom who has yet to explain himself.”

Fred’s forced smile, which he’d worn from the moment Tom’s face appeared in the window, fell away. “My flat’s destroyed.”

Tom frowned. “What, a fire?”

“No. Someone broke in.”

Tom’s confused expression became concerned. “A burglary, you mean.”

“No,” Fred snapped. The moment he realized his frustration had leaked into his tone, he reined it in. He wasn’t angry with Tom. He was perpetually fed up with the world entire, yes, but never with Tom. He lowered his voice and continued. “No, it’s not—they didn’t take anything, they just—”

The words caught in his throat. He ran his hand over his face to try and compose himself. It didn’t help.

What did help was Tom’s hands on his shoulders, and those same hands gently pulling him into a firm embrace. Fred sagged against him. His whole frame ached with exhaustion. Fred didn’t often get a good night’s sleep, but in the past forty-eight hours he’d not even had the pretense of an attempt. And now, with his home destroyed by unknown hands who might even now be in pursuit, and the police—

Fred swallowed down the howl swirling up from his hollow chest and let his forehead flop onto Tom’s shoulder with a heavy sigh.

“Furniture smashed,” Fred mumbled into Tom’s collar, rattling off the facts as he would’ve taken them down in shorthand. “Everything broken and fouled. Books, plates, papers, typewriter, clothes—”

“Clothes?” said Tom, the disturbance in his tone a faint echo of Fred’s anguish.

Fred swallowed hard and straightened, forcing another smile for Tom’s benefit. “I’ve got what’s left on my back. That’s all.” Which wasn’t too bad—a deep green velvet frock coat, with paler green waistcoat and cravat, and an olive trilby. Perfectly respectable. Still… “I’ll need to borrow a shirt in the morning.”

“Of course,” said Tom, in a tone which suggested it would be lunacy of the highest order to refuse. “Anything you need.”

Tom pulled away from him, which Fred greatly lamented, but as Tom returned with the whisky Fred had asked for, he couldn’t lament for long. Particularly not when Tom handed it over with a kiss, and a hand smoothing his hair, and an arm around his shoulders guiding him towards the bed.

Fred let Tom help him undress, appreciating how carefully Tom treated his few remaining garments. Then Tom pulled him under the bedclothes and held him as close as any vest. Fred, exhausted in body and mind, was more than ready to fall asleep.

But Tom still had questions. “Did you go to the police?”

“No.”

Tom tensed. “Why not?”

Tom could be painfully naive at times. Fred supposed that was to be expected when one got involved with a boy of five-and-twenty. He shook his head as best he could against the pillow. “They’ll just make it worse.” And he’d be damned thrice over before he went to the bloody bluebottles for help. He’d done it once—had begged Sergeant Drake for Vincent’s life, and—

Tom’s hand on his cheek brought him back to the present, away from horrific memories of grimy alleys and sharp knives.

Fred sighed. “The police came to me, anyway, so they’re involved whether I like it or not.”

“Do they know who might’ve done it?”

“Of course not,” Fred scoffed.

Tom persisted. “Do _you_ know?”

Fred found himself in the uncomfortable position of, for once, admitting he knew no better than the coppers. “Anyone. _The Star_ does not discriminate in whose sin it brings to light.”

Tom gave a little huff of laughter. Fred couldn’t see him in the dark under the covers, but he could recall the shape of the smile that accompanied that laugh. He kissed it, gently, chastely, just glad to have Tom held safe in his arms. Tom hummed in appreciation. Fred moved his lips on to Tom’s jaw, kissing his way up to his ear.

“You should move house,” Tom whispered as Fred nipped his earlobe. “Find a safer neighbourhood. Closer to here, maybe.”

Fred pulled back with another sigh, too exhausted to hide his exasperation. “And what crime should I report on in a _safe_ neighbourhood?”

“You don’t have to live where you work.”

“Yes, I do.” The people of Whitechapel didn’t appreciate questions from outsiders. With good reason. They’d all had enough of moral reformers and poverty tourism. Fred had grown up in it, had worked his way up through the print works to his position at _The Star_. Fred didn’t expect Tom to understand. At thirteen, Fred had juggled rough trade with typesetting, whereas Tom at that same age was safely tucked away at school. “Besides, the rent’s cheaper.”

Tom’s hand came to rest on Fred’s thigh. “Maybe you could report on something else, then. The Stock Exchange. Or Parliament.”

Fred rolled his eyes—a pointless gesture in the dark, but the habit was hard to break. “If I chattered on about the price of grain rising or falling, after you’d spent the whole day staring at ledgers in the office? You’d fall asleep as soon as I opened my mouth.” Fred could hear Tom’s intake of breath for a retort, so he kissed him to stop it. Pulling away, he added, “You love me for my blood and guts and murders. You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

Tom’s hand slid from Fred’s outer thigh to his inner. “I’ll have you now, then.”

Fred grinned and obliged him.


	4. Chapter 4

Fred slipped out of Tom’s sleeping embrace at four in the morning to return to the _Star_ office. It helped, he found, to keep on as if nothing had changed. London itself seemed to encourage this course of action. The fires, thefts, and good ol’ bloody murders Fred investigated that morning were much the same as any other—with the curious noted that today’s murdered corpse was found stuffed up a chimney. Fred avoided the coppers on the scene. They seemed keen enough to do the same to him.

By nine o’clock that morning the corpse was cleared away, and Fred returned to the office to find editor-in-chief Ernest Parke waiting for him.

“Chimney-murder will be ready for typesetting within the hour,” Fred promised him.

Parke’s sour expression didn’t change. “You’ve just missed Lord Withington’s solicitor.”

Fred _tch_ ’d in disappointment, slapping his notes onto his desk with a snap of his wrist. “Who got the interview? Mellinson?”

“The solicitor wasn’t here for an interview,” said Parke. “We’re killing the Withington story.”

Fred gawked at him. “What?”

“We’ll fill the column inches with the chimney murder and—”

“No, no, no, hang on! You’re going to let a toff come in here and tell us what stories we can and can’t run?”

“It’s too much of a risk.”

Fred narrowed his eyes, getting into Parke’s personal space the way Reid got into his. Parke’s expression twisted. _Good_ , Fred thought. _Let him squirm._

“You’re scared of him,” said Fred.

“I,” said Parke, “am conscious of the danger to the paper should we be sued for libel.”

“It’s not libel if it’s true,” Fred shot back. “You only got thrown in the clink because you didn’t bloody check your sources. I’ve no intention of saying Lord Withington’s flown to Peru when he’s sitting pretty in Belgrave Square.”

Parke stood firm. “Have you ever been arrested, Mr Best?”

Fred felt the scowl fade from his face in horror. Parke stepped forward. Fred stepped back.

“Ever had cold iron clang shut on your limp wrists?” Parke continued. “I did twelve months for my story. You’ll do two years hard labour.”

Impotent rage bubbled up from Fred’s heart. He clenched his jaw tight against its escape.

A hideous smile twitched at the corners of Parke’s mouth. “You bring me proof—absolute proof—of what we both know to be true of Withington’s household, and I’ll consider running the story. Until then, it’s dead. Move on.”

Parke held Fred’s gaze. Fred narrowed his eyes. Neither man blinked.

Fred, knowing he was beaten, forced himself to nod.

Parke returned the gesture and stalked out.

Fred, his blood still pounding in his ears, paced his office like a caged tiger. Like most toffs, Lord Withington was incapable of performing any task on his own. He sent his solicitor to quell _The Star_ by day. Who knew what rank creatures he summoned forth by night to do his dirtier work?

A mad suspicion grew in Fred’s mind, looming larger and larger, impossible to ignore. He sprang to his typewriter to do the barest treatment of the chimney-corpse story, then snatched the paper up and dashed from his office. He stopped at a photographer’s desk just long enough to snatch a Folding Rochester camera, then practically threw the chimney-corpse article at the boy running the Linotype machine on his way out the door. He jumped aboard an omnibus—first, to the Post Office to send a telegram, then off to the West End.

Ten o’clock saw Fred skulking around the entrance to the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. The street was packed with people awaiting the opening of Wagner’s Ring Cycle in German, a first for the establishment formerly known as the Italian Opera House.

Fred studiously ignored the solicitations of the fancy lads gathered outside. His eyes were occupied with the carriages of the well-to-do coming and going in the thoroughfare. The trouble with toffs—well, one of the troubles, anyway—was they all dressed alike. Not a bold sartorial soul among them. Just a sea of black with a silk sheen. The same tailcoats, the same white ties, the same top hats. Fred wanted nothing more then to knock those hats off their heads. Instead, he waited, flicking his gaze from face to face, searching for—

He paused. Not on a toff, but on one of the fancy lads. This particular lad stuck out. Unlike his fellows, he didn’t hoot at the gentlemen walking past, offering rowdy company. Indeed, it seemed as if this lad wished not to be seen at all—which was a poor business strategy for a member of the oldest profession in search of customers.

But more than that, the lad seemed familiar. Which wasn’t unusual, at least not for Fred. He’d probably seen at least three of the throng in more private contexts. But try as he might, he couldn’t picture the shy fellow with his clothes off. If anything, Fred’s memory said he ought to be more buttoned-up. Trade in his loosely-tied cravat for a high-buttoned collar, and his flapping checked coat for a sober blue—

Fred’s eyes widened as he recognized Sergeant Brown. He bit his lip to keep his crow of laughter at bay.

“Somethin’ strike you funny, Best?”

Fred jumped and whirled to find Sergeant Drake had sidled up next to him in his distracted state. He coughed to cover his surprise. “Sergeant. What brings you here?”

“Your telegram.”

Fred scoffed. “I hardly told you to come here. Had to hear it from his Lordship’s staff.”

Specifically, Fred had learned of Lord Withington’s whereabouts from a quick flirt with an obliging footman at Withington’s Belgrave Square residence. He doubted H-Division had resorted to similar methods.

Drake cleared his throat. “We were able to trace his movements through conversation with his wife.”

“Surprised she knew.” Fred cast his eyes back to poor Sergeant Brown, who looked even more uncomfortable than before. “How many of your boys are out playing pansy tonight?”

“More than you need know of.” Drake glared down at Fred. “Just stay out of our way, and we’ll sort it.”

_Blunder it, more like_ , Fred thought. Aloud, he said, “Then out of your way I shall go.”

He tipped his trilby to Drake, who raised an eyebrow. Fred left him to his confusion and slipped inside the theatre.

The lobby thronged with all sorts. Fred squeezed past the line for the ticket booth and followed a harried lobby-boy through a door marked STAFF.

Fred wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with the stage. He’d had a memorable affair with a Welsh actor in his younger days. But the opera—particularly the West End variety—was new to him. Still, a theatre was a theatre. And he felt fairly confident Lord Withington shared his disinterest in the opera itself.

The theatre’s inner workings were dim and labyrinthine. Stage hands rushed back and forth with brooms and ropes and a hundred other unidentifiable bits and bobs to prepare the venue for the impending performance. Stacks of props and set-pieces grew more frequent the further Fred traveled. He spotted an assistant wheeling a rack of costumes down a particular bend, and followed that hunch to a series of doors with names upon them matching the cast in the programme. But Fred didn’t think Lord Withington worthy of a star—not with his weak chin and nearly-empty bank account. So Fred slipped further forward, holding up his camera in response to inquiring looks, until he reached the mass dressing room used by the ballerinas.

A scene worthy of Degas greeted him. The dozen or so girls, most just finishing the laces on their pointed shoes, looked up en masse, then dropped their gazes with disinterest when they failed to recognize him. Evidently strange male visitors were not unusual here.

Fred cleared his throat. “Is anyone missing?”

The girls cast blank looks at each other. A dishwater blonde piped up, “Maud will be along shortly, sir.”

“And where is she now?”

The ballerinas, apparently fed up with Maud’s lackadaisical approach to their curtain call, pointed him further down the corridor to a particular cupboard.

As Fred approached the cupboard, he heard familiar gasps, squeals, and moans. He indulged in a grimace of disgust as he opened the front of the camera and adjusted the focus. Then he reached for the cupboard door handle.

The cupboard door opened as easily as that of Fred’s destroyed flat. The space was hardly big enough for one person, let alone two. Yet they’d managed it—the ballerina, her tulle skirt hiked up around her waist, her pale arms clenched around the black shoulders of a gentleman’s evening suit. The man’s hands were between her legs, manipulating her into making unseemly sounds. His face was buried in her collar.

Fred cleared his throat. “Lord Withington, I presume?”

The man’s head whipped around. Fred snapped the shutter. The flash blinded them all.

Fred’s vision returned just in time to see Lord Withington’s face twist in rage. “How dare you—!”

Fred finished winding the film roll and clicked the shutter again.

With an indignant howl, Lord Withington lunged. He got his soft hand around Fred’s wrist. Fred sacrificed his glove—his last remaining pair, thanks to this pathetic excuse for a rake—and escaped, sprinting away down the corridor with his precious camera clutched to his chest. Lord Withington scrambled after him, bellowing.

The scene attracted attention, of course—it could probably be heard from the house, if not the lobby. Inquisitive heads poked into the corridor. One man, probably the stage manager, seemed particularly perturbed and ready to tell off whoever had caused such a racket so close to showtime. Fred dashed past them all.

“Stop him!” Lord Withington cried. “Stop that man!”

Instantly, the passive witnesses turned to active pursuers. Dozens of hands snatched at Fred as he ran. One grabbed the sleeve of his jacket—Fred slipped his arm out and let them have it. Another plucked the hat straight off his head—Fred didn’t even look back. He had something far more precious in his hands. He couldn’t have run faster if he had another knifeman on his heels. The lobby door was in sight. Twenty yards off, ten—

An enterprising lobby-boy sprang into his path and dove for his ankles. Fred leapt over him. An hysterical laugh burst from his throat.

—and he crashed shoulder-first through the lobby door—in his shirtsleeves, hatless, cackling like a madman. The scandalized faces of the lobby throng only made him laugh harder as he shoved his way through them out the door down the steps to the street—where he ran face-first into Sergeant Drake’s chest.

“Steady on!” said Drake, grabbing Fred by the shoulders and holding him at arm’s length. “What the devil have you done now?”

“Your job!” Fred snapped, though he couldn’t help but grin.

“You!” came a shout from behind him.

All heads turned to the theatre entrance, where Lord Withington had braced himself in the doorway, hair mussed, tie undone, waistcoat unbuttoned, legs akimbo—and the front of his trousers flapping open. Fred wondered how angry a man must be to ignore a breeze like that. Then he raised his camera and took a third photograph.

Lord Withington shrieked and leapt off the steps at him. Fred instinctively stumbled back into Drake. He wondered if Drake intended to block his escape, to let Lord Withington tear him apart.

But a half-dozen fancy lads surged out of the crowd and practically plucked Lord Withington out of the air. His Lordship went down, his arms wrestled behind his back, and a pair of manacles snapped onto his bony wrists.

Fred snapped a fourth photograph.

“Right, that’s enough,” said Drake, pushing Fred aside and approaching the scuffle. 

Fred had to admit he quite liked the sight of Drake’s muddied boot coming down on the back of Lord Withington’s silk jacket. He added a fifth photograph to his collection.

“I said enough, Best!” Drake snapped over his shoulder.

Fred obligingly put down his camera and took up his memorandum book. “Comment for _The Star_ , Sergeant?”

“Off with you!”

Fred didn’t bother noting it. “Any comment from your Lordship?”

There wasn’t a single syllable of Lord Withington’s reply that could be printed without incurring severe fines, but Fred jotted it all down regardless.


	5. Chapter 5

“Your clothes, sir,” said Sergeant Brown in Leman Street three hours later.

Fred thanked the diminutive Sergeant with all the grace Lord Withington (still swearing his head off in a cell down the hall) lacked. He ignored the disgusted look from Artherton behind the front desk as he slipped his jacket over his shoulders, pulled his glove over his hand, and re-placed his remarkably uncrumpled trilby on his head.

“Any comment on your own role in the case, Sergeant?” Fred asked.

Sergeant Brown, bless his little heart, actually blushed. “No, sir. If you’ll excuse me—”

“Of course,” Fred replied, but the boy had already scampered off.

“You can go now,” Artherton grumbled.

Fred would’ve liked to argue with him, but in truth he had all he came for. He’d already badgered Reid into giving him the particulars of the case—how Lord Withington, through a third party, had hired the remnants of Blind Beggar Gang to ransack Fred’s flat as a warning; how Lord Withington’s empty bank accounts had led to a delayed payment to the aforementioned third party and subsequently the gang; how the gang had cracked under Drake’s questioning; how Lord Withington’s wife was as fed up with his antics as everyone else, and spilled her broken heart out to the Inspector. Thus, Lord Withington went down for conspiracy, breaking and entering, destruction of property—and, thanks to Fred’s provocation, public indecency. All in all it was a most satisfactory evening. So Fred left Leman Street with nothing more than a saucy tip of his trilby to Artherton’s disgruntled scowl.

Back at the _Star_ offices, Fred developed the photographs himself—he didn’t dare trust anyone else with them—then slapped the resulting prints on Ernest Parke’s desk at half-past midnight.

Parke stared down at the sordid mess. “We can’t print these.”

“No,” Fred agreed, “but we can certainly present them in court if sued for libel.”

Parke glanced up at him. “You’ve got ‘til noon tomorrow if you want to make the deadline.”

Fred scooped up his photographs and returned to his own office to hammer away at his typewriter until dawn.

The resulting headline—LORD WITHINGTON CAUGHT IN WEST END SCANDAL—was a feast for Fred’s eyes. He tucked a hot-off-the-press paper under his arm and walked whistling to Crouch End, arriving just in time for dinner. Upstairs, in Tom’s room, he collapsed into the armchair in front of the empty hearth. Tom read his own words aloud to him. Fred relished every confused pause, every astonished upswing at the end of Tom’s sentences.

“‘ _We ask that our community remain vigilant against the corruption and infringements of our so-called betters_ ,’” Tom concluded, folding the paper up. “Christ, Freddie.”

Fred hummed his agreement, too exhausted for much else. He’d been up nigh-on forty-eight hours twice in a row with a four-hour nap in between. He had satisfaction, yes, but still no home and no clothes. And no dinner—though Tom had ordered two up from his landlady, and a hot plate of beef and potatoes patiently waited at Fred’s elbow. He was simultaneously too tired and too worked up to eat.

“His poor wife,” Tom mused, setting the paper aside.

Fred, his stores of pity exhausted long ago, gave a huff of impatience. “I’ve done her a favor. This’ll speed her divorce suit along considerably. And before you start, she’s better off without him.”

“What about that ballerina?” Tom asked.

Fred’s stomach gave an uncomfortable twist. It had occurred to him, in the quiet moments after the fact, that he’d done something not unlike what that damned banker had done to him and Harry. But the guilt was easily chased away. There was lust between Lord Withington and the ballerina, certainly—but not love. And if the Crown would outlaw love, then Fred Best would expose lust. It was only a fair exchange. “She’ll get on, her sort always do. I don’t know why you’re scolding me. I should think I deserve at least a kiss for all that hard work.”

He’d spoken half in jest, and had prepared a much longer justification for his actions, with many fine words on the double standard for the actions of toffs versus the working class—but his speech was stilled by Tom’s soft lips on his own. Fred melted into it, let Tom part his lips and kiss him in the Continental fashion. Then, much to Fred’s chagrin, Tom pulled away. Fred opened his eyes and furrowed his brow in disgruntled confusion. In response, Tom held up his dinner.

“Eat,” said Tom, making an insistent motion with the plate.

Fred twisted his mouth to one side but took the offered food anyway. Tom could be an obstinate little devil when he had a mind for it.

Tom filled the air with chatter over dinner, which Fred—who’d done quite enough interrogating for tonight, thank you very much—greatly appreciated. Tom told him of cricket match results and the latest Parisian novel and who in the office was buggering it all up this week and a hundred odd things that didn’t matter to anyone but Tom and Fred. Then, when Fred had polished off most of his portion, Tom pulled him out of the chair and pushed him towards the bed.

“Bit early, innit?” Fred inquired over his shoulder.

Tom spun him around and set to untying Fred’s cravat. “You need sleep.”

“I didn’t realize you’d taken a medical degree.”

Tom relieved Fred of his jacket and started in on his waistcoat. “You look like Hell.”

“My, you do know how to charm a fellow.”

“Freddie!” Tom snapped, but his scowl vanished as Fred’s own stone face cracked into laughter.

“I can look after myself,” said Fred, bringing his hands up to cover Tom’s. 

Tom scoffed. “And you’re doing a bang-up job of it!”

Fred cocked an eyebrow. 

Tom sighed. “You take care of me, don’t you?”

“Hardly,” replied Fred, but his tone lacked confidence. After all, when Tom had fallen ill with influenza last winter, it was Fred who’d taken a leave of absence from the _Star_ to nurse him back to health in his own flat. He’d still written, of course—book reviews, which were easy enough to produce at home—but most of his hours that terrible first week were spent sitting up in bed beside his Tom, pressing damp cloths to his fevered brow, listening to his rattling breaths, laying one hand over his clammy chest to feel his heartbeat. Then for a fortnight afterward, keeping Tom abed by every means but force, and pushing tea and toast and broth and all manner of comforts on him. And then seven more nights after that, just to be sure, before he swallowed his own fears and watched Tom walk back out into the world and his own lodgings.

Tom had made a full recovery, obviously. Fred credited his youth and general good health. Tom apparently credited Fred. Fred wasn’t sure he felt entirely comfortable with that.

At present, Fred cleared his throat. He intended to make a rebuttal. He found he had none.

Tom cocked his head to the side, his blue eyes locked on Fred’s, patiently waiting his answer. When it didn’t come, he continued on his own. “Let me take care of you for once.”

Fred grumbled inarticulately.

Tom gave him a brilliant smile and went back to undoing Fred’s waistcoat.

It was, admittedly, something of a relief to not have to be in control of everything for once. Fred let Tom strip him—even let him take his glasses and ear and set them aside on the nightstand. Then Tom took him gently by the wrist and led him into bed.

Fred had every intention of showing Tom his appreciation between the sheets, but the moment his head met the pillow, the waves of exhaustion he’d kept at bay over the past week swept over his head and dragged him straight down into sleep. When next he opened his eyes, it was to the chime of a grandfather clock elsewhere in the house. Fred furrowed his brow in confusion as he counted the chimes. Four, five, six—

“Christ!” Fred leapt up from the bed.

“What’s wrong?” Tom mumbled, rubbing the heel of his hand over one eye.

“I’m late, damn it!” Fred snatched his glasses up from the night-stand, then spun in a circle in search of his clothes.

Tom dropped his hand and frowned at Fred. “It’s Sunday.”

“So?” Fred grabbed his shirt from the back of a chair and started to pull it on.

Tom’s fingers on his wrist stopped him. “So stay with me.”

Fred paused.

Tom held his gaze for a moment, as if testing his influence, then continued. “Just an hour or two. Please?”

And again, Fred’s resolve melted.

Tom tugged him back under the counterpane, where Fred found Tom’s cock already hard against his belly. Fred grinned and kissed Tom, letting him manipulate his own prick into a similar position. The friction between them, the slide of Tom’s soft thighs over his own, the rub of his cock against Tom’s stomach—to say nothing of Tom’s hot mouth on his collar, sucking bruises where no one else could see. Tom writhed in Fred’s arms, and Fred redoubled his efforts to hold him close, tight, safe. They ground their hips against each other. Fred tucked one hand down between them to take Tom in his fist. Tom’s moans became frantic gasps, his breath hitched, and with a few delicious throbs of his cock in Fred’s palm, he came in Fred’s fingers. Fred kept at it until he whimpered, then released him.

Tom gasped into Fred’s collarbone. “Christ, Freddie—!”

Fred laughed and kissed his swollen lips. Tom hummed happily into his mouth, then broke off the kiss and slid lower.

“I can finish myself—” Fred started to say, but Tom was already batting his hand away from his prick and replacing it with his mouth.

Fred’s spine arched the moment Tom’s lips met his cockhead. Soft lips gave way to a hot, wet passage, and Tom’s tongue licked up the throbbing vein. Fred buried his face in the pillow to keep quiet, his hips thrusting minutely in time with Tom’s bobbing head.

“God,” Fred mumbled, his voice catching. “You wonderful man, you beautiful boy, you—”

Tom swirled his tongue around Fred’s cockhead and swallowed him down, and Fred’s building spend rushed forth, spreading ecstasy from the tip of his cock up through his whole frame. He shuddered and cried out into the pillow. His hips gave instinctive jerks long after he’d finished. Tom mercifully released him and came back up for a congratulatory kiss—which Fred was only too happy to bestow.

“Marvelous, magnificent, beautiful—” Fred mumbled.

Tom pulled back with a laugh. “You already used that one.”

Fred chased after him, spouting praise between kisses. “Splendid—rapturous—”

Tom laughed harder and let himself be worshiped as Fred knew he so richly deserved.

They lay together long past the hour Tom had demanded, legs entwined, Tom’s head on Fred’s chest, Fred’s arms around Tom’s shoulders, sharing one of Fred’s cigarettes.

The grandfather clock chimed half-past eight. Fred sighed. “I really ought to be going.”

Tom’s sigh was even deeper and more disappointed, but he sat up without a word of complaint. “Before you do, I’ve got something for you.”

Fred thought it over. He wasn’t sure he could get a cockstand again so soon—though if anyone could do it for him, it’d be Tom—and besides, if Tom wanted Fred to be the receiving partner for once, Fred saw no reason not to indulge him. Still, “I’m not sure I have the time—”

Tom laughed. “No, not that, here—”

And he leapt out of the bed and trotted over to his wardrobe. Fred admired his beautiful pale buttocks in retreat, dusted with fine blond hair.

Tom turned around, a book-sized box in hand, and returned to hand the box over to a bewildered Fred. “Meant to give it to you last night, but…”

Fred untied the twine and carefully peeled away the brown paper to open the lid. There lay a splendid silk cravat in powdery pale lavender.

“It’s not much,” Tom said as Fred stared at it in shocked silence. “But it’s a start.”

Fred blinked back the burning in his eyes.

“Freddie?” said Tom.

Fred turned and threw his arms around Tom, squeezing him tight with all the words he couldn’t force past the lump in his throat. Tom returned the embrace warmly.


End file.
